"There are horrors beyond life's edge that we do not suspect, and once in awhile man's evil prying calls them just within our range."
― H.P. Lovecraft, The Thing on the Doorstep
…
Another Ghost
…
Walden Baskey had never intended many things in his life. Like many people, some things happened to him, and all he could do was let go and let the currents of life drag him around.
Some things, that he never intended, turned out to be good. Like his career in real estate, which turned out to be moderately successful and somewhat fulfilling. As a young lad he had always hoped that he would end up in academia, giving lectures from a podium. He never intended to marry, but he was glad to have been blessed with a wonderful daughter.
Walden thought that everything in his life has turned out more or less okay. He had a respectable career, and a family he loved.
That was until he purchased the flat, on a small side street, off Holborn Road. He knew immediately that something was wrong. But, Walden had no way of knowing just how wrong things could become.
The flat was covered wall to ceiling with cryptic writing. It spooked him just looking at it. But he was a modern man, and did not believe in the supernatural. The flat would fetch a good price on the market as soon as he fixed it up. So he began, with wallpaper and paint, to transform the flat into something comfortable, and not quite so ominous.
It was then that he began to lose some of his memories.
Walden was frightened at first, at what he thought was a very early onset of age related forgetfulness. His anxiety kept him from seeing a doctor, who truthfully, would not have been able to do much about Walden's memory lapses.
He did confide in his daughter. She was overly concerned. There was no need to make a fuss.
The trouble was, that the memory lapses seemed to be accelerating in frequency. He would wake up, and not know what day it was. Checking the date, he would realize he had no recollection of the past several days.
The last thing that Walden Baskey remembers clearly is waking up to the smell of blood. He was in the strange apartment, off Holborn Road, which he never did manage to sell. Baskey remembered running to the newly renovated bathroom and washing the blood from his hand, his forearms, and even his elbows, desperately hoping it was all his blood. Naturally, it was not.
…
"He's dead?" Harry gasped.
"Yes." Sherlock replied curtly.
"How?" Harry asked.
Sherlock was about to answer that they would know if Lestrade had actually shown up on time, when the DI walked through the door. He had a stack of manila folders in his hands, and the perpetually harried look that came with his job, along with the greying hair.
He invited them inside with barely a greeting, and began to spread the folders on his desk. Sherlock stood over the DI's shoulder and examined the photographs.
"Found dead this morning in his holding cell. Toxicology hasn't found anything. No wounds. There was no one in his cell. It's on video. The man just went to sleep and never woke up." Lestrade was saying pointing to the photographs which were spilling from the folders.
The photographs were indeed from the camera in Baskey's holding cell. The black and white pictures showed the man alone; first standing, then laying down in the cot. No one else was in the cell.
Sherlock picked them up and examined them.
"What do you think?" Lestrade asked.
"Could be a million things. Cardiac arrest, would be my first guess." Sherlock said, as he flicked through the photographs.
"You don't think it's suspicious?" Lestrade asked.
"People die in their sleep all the time. Is this all you've called me for?" Sherlock set the photographs down, and arched one eyebrow in Lestrade's direction. This was definitely less than a 7. He hated being called out for something so minor.
"I thought you wanted to be kept informed." Lestrade squared off, and crossed his arms. The detective inspector had perhaps sensed something suspicious in the Baskey's death, but Sherlock saw no evidence of that. He did not work from whimsies and hunches.
"A text would have been sufficient. No need to call me out for what appears to be natural causes. If that's all-" Sherlock drawled. He grabbed Potter by the upper arm and started heading towards the exit.
"Good day to you, too." He heard Lestrade grumble behind his back.
…
"That was a terrific waste of time." Sherlock growled at Potter once they were outside, as though it was the wizards fault. Harry took it in stride.
"Well, since we're out, want to go somewhere for dinner?" Harry suggested.
Sherlock considered it. There was nothing to do at home except for fiddle with the non-functional diagrams that he had drawn up on the floors of his flat. He would be bored at a restaurant, but he would be bored anywhere else too. He might as well make deductions about the waitstaff, and complain about the quality of the food to the wizard, who was always willing to listen.
"Fine." He sighed, and began pulling Harry in the direction of an Italian place he had been to, once or twice.
…
"See the way he keeps wiping at his nose and sniffing? Trying to get clean from cocaine. About three years of heavy use. The dog tags he has under the shirt aren't his. Partner must be in the military." Sherlock rattled off, watching their waiter run around the floor, like a child watches a prancing grasshopper.
"What if he's just got a cold?" Harry suggested.
"Then I would like ask for a different waiter." Sherlock replied frostily. He had no time to get sick.
"No, no, that's compulsion. He's used to wiping his nose periodically to check for blood. You can tell by the frequency of the gesture…" Sherlock said, and indeed their waiter quickly swiped at his nose again.
They were seated in a booth, close to the windows, from where they could observe the streetlife outside, as well as the inhabitants of the restaurant.
There was a moderately handsome couple next to them, on their second bottle of wine. Happily married, four years, two children, one dog. Dull.
The waiter, Mark, came over with a black notepad.
He started rambling off the specials of the day, nervously twitching, and glancing towards his sides. Sherlock was growing irritated since he knew what he wanted, and had no need of this diatribe.
"Lovely selection of red wines, would you like the list, or…" The waiter went on. Sherlock was just about to snap at the young man to shut his gap, when an idea came to him. He had never observed the effects of alcohol on Potter. He knew, theoretically, (and in practice, too), that alcohol could potentially loosen and expose inner turmoils and emotions that an individual might want to keep hidden.
"We'll order. Carbonara for him," Sherlock pointed to the wizard, "and a puttanesca for me. And a bottle of your house red, please." Sherlock could imagine Mycroft's grimace if he were present at this very moment. Where his brother had developed a taste for refined and expensive liquors, Sherlock didn't care if he was drinking Patron Silver or petrol, since to him it all tasted quite similar. Wine he could tolerate, but the subtle taste everyone went on about was lost on him. The effect was more important than the means, he reasoned. And anyway, it wasn't for him.
"How did you know what I wanted to order?" Potter asked, with a little amusement. Sherlock rolled his eyes. The wizard was practically drooling while he looked at the table over, where the woman was tucking into the aforementioned dish with some delight. Or perhaps he was drooling over the woman? A part of Sherlock commented. This made Sherlock unreasonably irritated. No, it was the food, I'm confident of it he reassured himself.
They spent some time in pleasant conversation. The wizard, Sherlock had found some time ago, was unwilling to openly discuss the details of his world in public, especially when they were in proximity to other non-magicals. This presented Sherlock with the interesting game of disguising his language in such a way that they could keep up a conversation without anyone guessing at its contents. Not that anyone would guess, anyway. But he supposed the wizard's paranoia was a natural reaction to being wanted by everyone who knew who he was.
When the wine came, Sherlock poured both of them a full glass. He was immediately disappointed when Harry didn't start drinking it at a quick pace. In fact, the wizard would only drink his when Sherlock himself raised the glass to his lips, as though they were playing an adult version of Simon Says.
Figures he would be difficult about this, Sherlock thought, and took another sip from his glass.
He would have to be careful. From past experiences with John, Sherlock had learned that he was something called a 'lightweight.'
…
One bottle had turned into three, and by the time they were finished, Sherlock was feeling pleasantly warm as they stepped out of the restaurant, and into the London night. A light drizzle had started while they were eating, and it felt rather nice on his overheated cheeks.
He recognized that his steps were not exactly orthogonal, but rather following a slightly curved path. He could not bring himself to care.
He grabbed the wizard, almost stumbling in the process, and began pulling him towards the alley behind the restaurant. Harry followed, without complaint.
"Poof us home?" Sherlock asked, hoping he was enunciating clearly.
The wizard looked confused, as he mouthed the word 'poof,' but then he must have understood. Harry grimaced.
"I'm not sure apparating will be safe right now," he said, the apology clear in his voice.
"Hmph, not getting you drunk again, then." Sherlock whinged. Cab it was then, and made his way to the front of the restaurant.
Sherlock was happy to see a yellow cab stop, and park nearby, waiting for patrons.
He pointed it out to the wizard, and the other man also seemed happy with this fortuitous turn of events. Harry quickly clambered in. Sherlock heard him giving the directions to the cabbie, but Sherlock remained outside, just near the open car door.
He was reluctant to get into a cab again with Potter, but also excited, and the two contrary thoughts made his head spin. Their cab ride to Scotland Yard was still fresh in his mind, and Sherlock was not sure whether getting into a small, dark space with the wizard was wise for him.
Don't be ridiculous, it's just a car. Everything was perfectly fine and normal, Sherlock said to himself as he climbed in. Indeed, it was, as their cab ride home was not eventful at all.
…
As soon as they were through the doorway of 221b, Harry returned his face to its normal appearance. They took the stairs together, Sherlock stumbling slightly, and the wizard holding him up. Sherlock was almost about to snap at Potter to let him go, as he was perfectly capable of making the stairs, when the wizard himself almost tumbled down, and Sherlock had to catch him by the sleeve, while keeping his own balance, clinging madly to the bannisters. Harry chuckled and it was infectious, because Sherlock started laughing as well, though he didn't know why.
"Sorry about that. I don't drink often." The wizard said, color flooding his cheeks. Sherlock thought at that moment that he could feel the iris in his eyes contract, as his pupils dilated, but he knew that it was impossible to feel such a thing. He saw the blush creep under the wizard's pale skin and wanted to follow it down, past the collar of the shirt, and see how far it spread over Harry's skin.
But even with the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream, Sherlock made no move to follow his compulsion. If anything, he felt more frightened by his desire, terrified of the outcome that his actions could precipitate.
Once they reached the landing both men needed to catch their breath. They stood framed in the doorway for a few moments, with Harry looking down, and Sherlock staring at the wizard. Sherlock had no idea what his facial expression represented. He could have been grinning madly or frowning studiously or sticking his tongue out, or all three. He dearly hoped his face was simply blank.
Harry looked up at him, and grinned crookedly.
"Well, goodnight!" the wizard said, and unceremoniously left to go to his bedroom. Sherlock didn't know whether to be angry or relieved, as he walked into the living room.
It was late, and the windows outside were pitch black. The only light in the room was a single, incandescent light bulb, levitating and meekly illuminating Sherlock's desk. By the dim light Sherlock could see his rendition of the Goetic diagrams which he copied from Laura Baskey's flat. He must have been more inebriated than he thought. He could have sworn that some of the writing had shifted, and was now on a different floorboard. That was impossible of course, so deciding he had simply over indulged in mediocre red wine, Sherlock headed to his bedroom.
Sherlock lay in his bed for some time, panting, and unable to stop the barrage of images that came for him during the nighttime hours. Sherlock thought that next time he ought to actually drink a little more, so that he could comfortably slip into unconsciousness. The images, fantasies more like, all centered around the same familiar subject. Half a dozen times, Sherlock almost leaped out of his bed, intent on dragging Potter out if his room, and… what?
What then?
He was able to stop himself, and eventually, Sherlock fell into a strange and troubling dream.
…
Harry woke up with a tolerable headache. He felt it was milder than he deserved. Drinking in public was a bad idea, and he couldn't understand why he had let himself do it.
The only excuse he came up with is that he felt safe with the detective by his side. Harry knew that alone he never would have dared. But as brilliant as Sherlock was, he wouldn't be able to do much about aurors, Harry reminded himself, so it was still a foolish thing to do.
It was still early morning. After the night's drizzle, there was clean, healthy sunlight pouring in through the windows, and Harry thought he might have heard birds above the sound of London's traffic. A feeling of contentment stole over Harry.
Life was much better at Baker Street. He didn't need to pilfer food, or look for uninhabited shelters; talking to Sherlock was much more entertaining than talking to a cat, though sometimes just as confusing.
When he was alone, his mind would always wander to the pale and ghostly place between worlds, where he had been stuck, once upon a time. He felt like a shadow in that place; not dead, so unable to fully reach through the veil. But so close to the dead that he felt like a spectre in the world of the living.
But, around Sherlock he was always in the moment. Harry felt more in tune with life, with the world around him, than he had for a very long time. The pieces that Harry knew he was missing might not have been filled in, but at least he could see the faint glimmering outline of them, like missing jigsaw puzzles.
The hangover wasn't so bad, and the weather was fine, and it looked like it would be a good day. With that thought Harry cheerfully ignored his headache, got up, and headed to the main floor for breakfast.
Harry almost didn't notice him in the living room, standing by the fireplace, and studying the floor. Harry made it to the kitchen when he saw out of the corner of his eye a squat, transparent figure. He had to backtrack, and as he approached the figure, he was filled with dread.
"You..." Harry said, cautiously, "what are you doing here?"
The figure looked up. Its identity was undeniable now.
"You can see me?" Walden Baskey's image said with some surprise. "This is wonderful, I can tell you then…" Baskey began walking towards Harry, but the wizard retreated immediately.
"Get away from me!" Harry knew the spirit couldn't hurt him, but he still didn't think it was a good idea to approach a serial killer, dead or not.
"This," Baskey pointed to the floor, where Sherlock's diagrams were drawn into the wood with permanent markers and chalk, "it's just like in that flat. Oh, the flat, it was the flat, I know it was!" He said with dismay, wringing his ghostly hands.
"You must get rid of it! At once!" Baskey's eyes snapped to Harry's as he pleaded with him. "It will infect you, too. You must!"
Harry wasn't sure what to say. He looked at the writing under Walden's semi-transparent feet, which Sherlock had reproduced from the photographs of Laura Baskey's flat. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it started to shift, and slither. Just as suddenly, it stopped, and became stationary again. The phantom did not wait for Harry to answer, but continued to speak.
"My Laura, I can't find her anywhere! Where has she gone?" He bemoaned.
Harry wanted to feel fury, at the killer's words, but he knew wanting was useless. Instead, all he felt was a mild disgust.
"Your daughter? Is that why you haven't gone on? You're still hunting her?" Harry said with a blank expression.
"No! I would never hurt my Laura! You must believe me!" Walden cried, and then approached Harry again. This time, Harry didn't back away.
"You were the one that caught me, weren't you? There were two of you... I'm glad, very glad, you two found me, and stopped me before-before I could hurt my Laura! It was too late for the others, the poor girls..." Walden cried. "But you must believe me! It was the flat, the writing in the flat, and now it's here! It wasn't me, I would never have done those things!"
Harry was almost convinced he was having a very bad dream, but out of the corner of his eye he noticed the writing shifting again, and knew there was something to what Baskey was saying. After all, the dead seldom have ulterior motives. Looking down at the floor, he heard a low, hushed murmur, as the Goetic letters twisted slowly.
Harry thought he might be catching on. Quickly, he stepped out of the range of the writing, and into the kitchen. The spirit followed.
"You must promise me that you will destroy this." Walden's spirit waved at the floor. "Or else, it will do this again. I am sorry I couldn't stop it. But you have to destroy it now, before it takes over someone else!"
Harry looked at Baskey.
"I will." He said simply, at a loss for anything else.
The spirit relaxed, and then, starting from the edges, slowly disappeared into the air.
…
The warm firelight from a lonely torch was hung above Sherlock's head. It was the only source of illumination, and the stone corridor stretched out into infinite darkness on either side.
He was in his labyrinth again. He visited this place almost nightly now, despite never wanting to be here. The only consolation was that the wizard was also there, and was leaning against Sherlock, as they both sat on the stone floor.
"It's no use running from it, you know." The wizard spoke up. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.
"I'm not running anywhere." Sherlock answered.
"No, here you're not." The wizard answered with contentment. He pressed himself against Sherlock, rather like a cat. Sherlock let him, and raised his hand, tentatively. He ran his hand through the wizard's hair, but shyness stole over him, and he made himself stop.
"You know, this is your dream. You could do what you want with me." Harry stated. Sherlock was about to agree, but he knew he could not trust himself to speak at that moment. He continued carding his hands through the wizards hair.
The wizard sighed next to him, and Sherlock felt it reverberate through his own body.
"You have to do something. Soon, this won't be enough for you. I know you have courage, when it counts. You just have to decide…." Harry was saying. "And the thing in the center, it will strangle us both if you let it," Harry whispered, as the firelight dimmed, and the corridor began to shake. "I can help you get rid of it, but you have to let me in there first."
Sherlock shook his head. No one was going into the center. Not him, and certainly not the wizard. He could not afford to lose the wizard to the monster in the stone heart of the labyrinth.
"Sherlock?" Harry was calling with urgency, but the firelight went out, and they were both plunged into darkness…
"Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up."
Sherlock opened his eyes to see the wizard standing above him, and for a second thought he was still dreaming.
"Sherlock I think you should come down and see this…" The wizard was saying.
As soon as Sherlock realized he was no longer dreaming he grew very irritated, which was not at all helped by the pounding behind his eyeballs.
"What? Why?" He managed to growl out.
Hurriedly, the wizard told him about seeing Baskey, or rather his ghost, and about Sherlock's writing moving on its own.
Sherlock jumped out of bed, and tugged on his dressing gown. He almost went down again on account of his unsteady feet, but Potter was able to steady him. Sherlock's mind was jumbled; a part of it was still in the stone labyrinth, where the wizard was tamely lying next to him. It was too much to have the real life version this close to him so early in the morning. Sherlock focused his mind, and counted his breaths, and after a few seconds, left his bedroom with Potter.
As soon as he saw the floor, where he had reproduced the carvings from Laura's flat, Sherlock knew Harry was telling the truth. The writing was really moving! Very slowly, and barely perceptible, but moving indeed! He immediately sprang towards it to isolate which string of symbols was affected.
Sherlock heard Harry give a warning, but disregarded it completely. How absolutely fascinating! Sherlock had the impression that he had done some sort of magic. Now, what would be the outcome of actually using the diagrams, that was the real question!
He quickly walked over to his cramped and messy writing desk, and found the paper with the written out invocation that would, in theory, activate the sigils on the floor.
"Harry come here. You will stand in the hexagram in the middle here, by the have to read this as precisely as possible. I wrote out a pronunciation guide, and it might be wise to practice a few times before actually doing it." Sherlock was trying to give the paper to Harry, but the wizard refused.
"Sherlock, no! Haven't you been listening? We have to get rid of it." Harry said, and repeated what the ghost of Walden Baskey supposedly told him. Sherlock quickly became very angry.
"You will listen to some mirage, perhaps an illusion of your own mind, but you won't listen to me? Fine, I'll do it." An amazing sense of confidence filled Sherlock. He felt like he could do anything. Anything at all. He was half convinced that if he were to have a go with Potter's wand, it would work for him as well.
"Sherlock we must destroy it. What if it takes hold of one us like it did with Baskey?" Harry was saying, with urgency and worry. Sherlock just waved a hand at him.
"Even if he was real, I'm sure he was lying." He said, with the same unwavering confidence.
"Why would he lie Sherlock? He's dead."
"There's a million reasons. Now if you're not going to help, kindly shut up so I can do this." Sherlock stood in the hexagram, facing north, and prepared to recite the summoning. Before he could get the first syllable out, he felt Potter's hand on his arm.
"We have to destroy it. Now." The wizard said, his face blank.
Sherlock's confidence was replaced suddenly with violent anger.
"How dare you?" Sherlock snarled. "I will do what I like in my own home. You might as well clear out, if you don't like it. In fact do so now. Go back to whatever derelict hole you lived in before I brought you here!"
The wizard narrowed his eyes. Harry was examining him critically, like Sherlock was some sort of riddle he was trying to solve.
"I'm sorry about this." The wizard said plainly, and before Sherlock had time to react, the wizard reached for his wand, and with a flick Sherlock went completely still. He could not move at all, which was...distressing.
"You can kick me out later. But I think it's already started to affect you. I'm getting rid of it." Harry said, pointing to the floor. Sherlock wanted to shout and scream at him, but his own body would not obey him. Every muscle was frozen, and refusing any orders his brain sent.
Harry levitated him close to the kitchen. When he was being set down again Sherlock almost fell over. For a second, he was illogically frightened that upon hitting the ground he would shatter into pieces like a marble statue. But Harry caught him, and leaned him gingerly against the kitchen wall.
Sherlock was beyond furious. How could Potter do this to him, after all the help he has given the wizard? Sherlock found himself thinking of ways to kill the wizard, without being put on the business end of that wand. He knew more about murder than perhaps anyone in London. He felt confident that it was well within his capabilities, as soon as he was free of this damned curse!
Harry took out the wand, and began pointing it at the outer edges of his diagrams. No, no, no! All of that work, and Potter was going to destroy it. Sherlock wanted to stop him, at any cost, but it was absolutely helpless. He could not move a millimeter.
Damn him! Sherlock seethed as he watched the wizard clearing away everything. Once he had erased everything else, the wizard approached the hexagram. Sherlock was proud to note that it was twisting madly now, the lines distorting the wooden grain of the floor, and he could hear a low murmur, incomprehensible but strangely beautiful, coming from his work.
Don't let him destroy it, a voice told Sherlock. It was his work, his! And it was brilliant! Sherlock felt a strange tug on his navel, as Harry began erasing the outer edges of the hexagram. The tugging intensified into pain, and Sherlock wanted to cry out.
The hexagram was giving Harry some trouble, but when the wizard erased the final symbols at the heart of the hexagram, Sherlock heard a loud and pitiful cry, coming from it. The pain in his stomach disappeared, and also his anger. He was stunned for a moment. He was suddenly not sure what had just transpired in his own flat, and in his own head.
Why had he wanted to protect the diagrams? He would not have thrown the wizard out for them, surely? Yes, he certainly felt more regard for Harry than the scribbles on his floor. Why had he acted like that?
Harry came over to Sherlock cautiously.
The wizard had said that Sherlock was becoming affected by it in the same manner as Walden Baskey. He supposed that made sense. Where only a minute ago he wanted to poison the wizard for cleaning the floor, now he was sure that he would not want to cause Harry any harm at all.
"Are you okay?" The wizard said nervously, "I am very sorry. I think it might have gotten a hold of you, whatever it is. If you still want me to leave, then I will." Harry continued, but it was obvious by his tone that the wizard did not want to leave at all. This pleased Sherlock.
Sensing that perhaps Sherlock would like to have control of his body again the wizard twitched his wand in Sherlock's direction, and Sherlock sagged like a rag doll. He might have fallen over, but Harry anticipated it, and was there to help him. The contact made Sherlock flush, and lose his train of thought. Even worse (or perhaps better), Harry decided to hold onto Sherlock, presumably because he was worried the detective would fall over again.
"It's quite alright. I think you were correct." Sherlock said in a measured, and calm tone. He was still reeling from the implications of the whole situation. It was too easy to manipulate Sherlock, and he absolutely hated being manipulated. The contact that the wizard maintained with him did not help to focus Sherlock's thoughts.
"Thank you." Sherlock said, squeezing the wizard's arm, and stepped away. Harry positively beamed at Sherlock's reaction. Perhaps he was relieved that Sherlock was not going to kick him out. Sherlock felt a pang of guilt when he remembered what he had said to the wizard only minutes ago. He wanted to apologize, but didn't have a clue how to start. And anyway, it looked like the wizard understood he was not in control of himself.
Sherlock's legs felt like they would give out again. He quickly walked over to the kitchenette and plopped down in the wooden chair.
"Could you...ahem...tea?" Sherlock said weakly, pointing vaguely to the cabinetry. What was wrong with him? His whole body was shaking, and exhibiting systems not unlike a withdrawal. His reasoning and focus were in shambles. He did not know if his mind was still compromised, and the idea of not being able to control himself, of being infected by something alien, was scaring him, forcing him into a barely restrained panic. The truth was, he did not know if he was still himself; or rather, himself again. He did not notice the creeping influence of the Goetic drawings until he was rid of them. For all he knew, he could still be under their influence, and simply ignorant of it.
He felt like he was coming apart at the edges. The only thing in the world he could trust was his own mind. If something were able to tamper with it, so easily it seemed, then he was completely alone, and helpless. What if the same thing decided to take hold again, and next time he actually did murder Potter? What if he murdered someone else?
Dread caught hold of him. Sherlock was shaking at thought of something ancient and powerful, which he knew nothing of, but his own folly had pushed him to tamper with it. He felt somehow sullied, and dirty, and he hated the idea of the alien thing possibly still crawling in his mind, waiting for its chance to take hold again. At least the wizard was able to put a stop to it this time.
The wizard. He had practically saved him. Sherlock felt a delayed wave of gratitude when he saw the wizard putting together tea. Harry came over and handed him a cup. Then, unexpectedly, the wizard put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock felt comfort at the contact.
"You're fine now. I can see that." The wizard said plainly, but with confidence.
"Have you ever been possessed?" Sherlock asked, even though he knew the answer from perusing Essences and Vessels.
"Yes, but not like that. It was another wizard." Harry said simply, and did not elaborate.
Sherlock knew when he picked up the slim volume from Granger's bookshelf that the author was his own wizard, which was why he was so quick to pocket the book. There are no such things as coincidences. The nom de plume that the wizard had written the short treatise under was Allen Dore, and Sherlock thought it was hilarious that Harry used the same pseudonym when he accompanied him on cases.
The book concerned magical theory, and as Harry once described it, it was "about splitting souls, and damaging souls, healing souls, phoenix tears...nothing really interesting." Sherlock disagreed with the last part, but the short summary the wizard had given him was mostly accurate.
There was a particular section, which Sherlock recalled, that dealt with none of the above mentioned subjects, but rather with possession.
"It is of course possible for the essence of one vessel to enter another. This is commonly known as possession. It is rare that the two essences in question are human souls, but possible. The imperius curse is such an example; the soul of the caster reaches into the body of the victim and inhabits both bodies at the same time. A more common example is the spell 'Permovo Fera,' which allows a wizard or witch to possess an animal, in a similar manner."
The paragraph following that described, with vivid detail, the experience of being possessed more directly by another wizard. Sherlock could tell, while reading it, that this is something his wizard had experienced, and probably not enjoyed very much.
Sherlock felt like he was regaining control. The wizard was probably quite capable of discerning whether or not he was in danger of being a puppet for whatever had called to him from those diagrams. He always trusted in his own mind, but perhaps he could trust the wizard as well. Or at least, in this regard. When it came to deductive thinking and reasoning, the wizard was of above average intelligence, but still an idiot compared to Sherlock.
Sherlock was a proficient observer: probably one of the best in the world. He could tell from Harry's character that the wizard was one of those fools who would rather die than let someone they care about come to harm. He could trust that Harry would be there to save him again, if he needed it. He would rather not need it but- the thought was comforting. And so was the tea and the company.
Suddenly, the company left, only to return a moment a later with Sherlock's cell phone.
"It's been blowing up. I don't think you noticed." Harry said, as he handed the device to Sherlock.
Unlocking his phone, Sherlock scrolled through his received texts.
It had not been a brilliant start to the day, but Sherlock had to carry on. He still had his uncle Rudy to visit, in Yorkshire. Mycroft and Hermione were both requesting his presence. Sherlock quickly staggered all of the things he needed to do, in order of importance. At least it would not be a boring day.
"How do you feel about going on a day trip to Yorkshire?" Sherlock asked. He could have sworn for a second he saw Harry's face darken, but then the wizard responded that he would be coming along.
"Very well. Hopefully you'll have a better reaction to my driving than John." Sherlock knew he was not yet perfectly okay after his encounter with possession, but decided that visiting his favorite uncle would clear his mind. And perhaps even though the morning started terribly, it could have been worse. Sherlock was glad that Harry had the maturity not to say 'I told you so.'
…
AN: Please be kind to this long suffering author, and leave any comments or thoughts you had while reading. Reviews keep me motivated, and working away on a keyboard.
Hope you guys liked this one!
